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Rothhaven lit a carrying candle and showed Althea across the chilly corridor. Whereas Robbie’s rooms were full of books, atlases, treatises, a telescope, orrery, and several stringed instruments, Rothhaven’s sitting room was plain and cozy. A blue-and-cream afghan sat in a rumpled heap on a sofa upholstered in gold velvet, writing implements were scattered across a much-stained blotter on the desk.
“The bedroom is through here,” he said, pressing on a panel beside the fireplace. “I prefer a cold room for sleeping, but there’s warm water on the hearth, and I can put some coals in the—”
She waved him to silence.
“I’ll manage. If I don’t come wake you in a couple of hours, send out the hounds, for I’ve gone missing in that great monstrosity where you sleep.” The bed’s regal dimensions dominated the room, blue velvet hangings sweeping down from the canopy nearly to the carpet.
“You don’t want anything?” he asked. “I could pop down to the kitchen and find bread and butter and a pint of ale.”
Althea was too tired to eat, but a difficulty did present itself. “Could you send me a maid?”
“I can manage the warmer,” he said, moving toward the hearth, where a warming pan hung from a hook beneath the mantel. “Won’t take but a moment.”
“I’m not daunted by cold sheets, Your Grace. I had company earlier today, and I changed into one of my fancier…I wasn’t expecting Stephen, and he’s not one to dress for dinner, which means my hooks…” This was why upsetting a routine was seldom wise. “The hooks on my dress need undoing.”
She was blushing, and Rothhaven was smiling. He set aside the warmer. “As it happens, I am competent to undo a lady’s hooks, unless fashion has changed enormously in recent years. The alternative is to make you wait eternities while a maid bestirs herself from slumber. Turn around.”
He went about the business with brisk dispatch, no wandering hands, no subtle caresses, more’s the pity. Perhaps that was for the best. Althea wanted his hands to wander and longed for his caresses, but mere satisfaction of the carnal urges would not do for her in his case.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping away.
Rothhaven reached past her, to take down a dressing gown from the bedpost. He draped it around her shoulders, enveloping her in velvet lined with flannel, and in the subtle scent of sandalwood.
“Can’t have you taking a chill. Get some rest.”
He remained before her, slightly disheveled, tired, and doubtless worried for his brother, and yet, Althea didn’t want him to go.
“I don’t talk about the past,” she said. “Not with anybody.”
Rothhaven drew the lapels of the dressing gown together. “Neither do I, but with you…”
They had shared confidences, and now Althea very much wanted to share a bed with him. In a day or two, she’d return to Lynley Vale, resume her quest for a proper place in society, and leave Rothhaven to his secrets and intrigues.
But she’d also leave him with a much-guarded piece of her heart—if not the whole of it—which is why she kissed him on the cheek, and gave him a shove toward the door. Perhaps Rothhaven grasped her dilemma, for he paused at the threshold only long enough to bow, then he left her alone in the cold and darkness of his bedroom.
“I did not go to the expense of kitting you out, scheduling a half-dozen costly entertainments, hosting houseguests, and denying myself the pleasures of Town during the Season so you could cede the field to a glorified streetwalker.”
Lady Phoebe’s tone was pleasant, for a lady’s tone was always pleasant. The look on Sybil’s face was most unpleasant, but then, Sybil’s mother had been headstrong to a fault, and a hasty wedding had been the result.
“Lady Althea was perfectly decent to me, Aunt, and whatever else is said about her, nobody has impugned her virtue.”
“Hand me thatpipette.” Phoebe bought her wine in barrels, which made the product much harder to adulterate than if she purchased her inventory in corked bottles. Then too, wine by the barrel was cheaper, and Phoebe could monitor the aging herself rather than trust to the indifferent palate of a lowly butler. The barrel on its side before her had been a particularly good bargain.
“Is this apipette?” Sybil passed over a slender tube of hollow glass.
“French for ‘little flute.’” Phoebe dipped the glass into the open hole in the side of the barrel.
“I’m chilly,” Sybil said. “Why must I lurk in this damp cellar when I could be upstairs waiting for Lord Ellenbrook to come down to breakfast?”
“He had breakfast some time ago. Be quiet and watch.” Phoebe slowly dipped the glass into the wine, stopped the top of the tube with her finger, brought the tube to her mouth,and let the wine trickle onto her tongue.
She breathed in, she breathed out, lips slightly parted as she’d been taught. The flavors developing were complicated, as a hearty claret could be. Plenty of fruit, of course, also a hint of spices and a touch of leather all laced up with oak.
She swallowed and considered the fading hues of taste and sensation trailing in the wine’s wake.
“It’s time,” she said. “Mustn’t allow too much wood. Wine and women can pass their prime so easily.”
“If Ellenbrook has already had breakfast,” Sybil said, pacing away, “where is he?”
